Blue Velvet and Rosewood
by Insomniac Owl
Summary: Some people won't let go of the dead. Sometimes they can't.


Blue Velvet and Rosewood

By Insomniac Owl

-

The light of a spring morning was no comfort on the day that Sasuke died. It was in a hospital room (unfitting, Orochimaru thought. He would have hated it), the curtains, white, blowing in a slow breeze. There were forms to sign afterward (because it had been a car accident), but only a few, and six days later Orochimaru stood at the foot of a freshly dug grave, all filled up. Standing there, alone (everyone else had gone long ago, even Sasuke's friends), he wanted to kneel, tearing clumps of dirt from the earth to liberate the boy beneath.

He didn't understand death, never had. It _terrified_ him.

When he left, it was just past nine and the stars were shining. He went home, to the room he and Sasuke had shared, and slept. He dreamt of Sasuke in that little box, terrified just like he was.

o

"Orochimaru-sempai?"

He looked up, dragging a hand across his face. Had he been sleeping? His face felt oddly shaped, a little squished from pressure exerted, and he realized he must have been. He couldn't quite open his eyes, and his body felt sluggish.

"Hm?"

"Stay with us, okay? Tsunade is going to give her speech later, and I'd hate for you to miss it." The girl - he couldn't remember her name, though the face was familiar - smiled, returning to her work. It struck him, gazing at her back, that she had been at Sasuke's funeral - nearly a year ago now. She was the last one to leave, besides him… and Sasuke. Sasuke had stayed on, slowly rotting away….

In the months following the funeral (even before that, actually, because he'd had a few books and he couldn't resist) he had researched, searching for something he wasn't even sure he'd find. He hadn't wanted to call it hope, but it probably was; hope that Sasuke would come back, that he would see him again.

"Orochimaru-sempai?"

He blinked, looking up. "Yes?"

"You looked like you were going again. Are you alright?" The girl's voice was kind, a little sympathetic as well.

He wanted to answer 'yes' but settled for a nod. "Tell me when Tsunade will start, please," he said, rising from his seat. "I'm going to get something to drink." There was a concession stand just outside the lecture hall, and they served coffee, snacks - little things like that. He hadn't slept well in the past year (since Sasuke's funeral, actually - a funny coincidence), nightmares, that sort of thing. He accepted it, and drank coffee.

In the few months follow Sasuke's death, he had buried himself in the library, neglecting (out of forgetfulness and nothing else) appointments he had made, things that needed doing. He'd withdrawn, or so the therapist Tsunade had hired said. Everyone was kind to him, making an attempt to understand, or at least to help, but, really, they hadn't done much. When he lay in bed he often imagined Sasuke as he had been - dark eyes, a little quiet and withdrawn, pretty - and he couldn't help but wish….

After a year he'd put his books away and tried to move on. He'd only been marginally successful, however, since he would always dream the same dream - blue Victorian velvet and hands with all the struggle gone out.

"Hello, what can I get for you?" The young boy behind the counter was smiling, cheerful, and Orochimaru half wanted to say 'Sasuke'. He knew, however, that he would get only a puzzled look and a request to repeat himself.

"Could I get some coffee? With cream and sugar, please." He dug for the correct change, laying a bill and two coins on the counter and moving aside to wait.

He would likely carry the memory of a boy (not so young, not anymore) with dark hair and darker eyes with him forever. Eyes closed, hands crossed; calm though Orochimaru wasn't.

He took the cup the boy handed him, reaching for a cardboard cup-holder to slip on. "Thank you," he said, nodding.

In spite of his research, he had found next to nothing. He knew death was the ceasing of life, the point at which the brain and heart no longer functioned and were still. When life stopped, when the body no longer responded to stimuli. When the body was just that - a body. A cadaver. A hunk of meat. (Sasuke was a body, a cadaver, a hunk of meat.) But that told him nothing.

o

Lectures done, Orochimaru went into the stores surrounding the lecture hall. It was a nice day out, the sun shining with typical spring brightness, but he'd wanted a few books to read on an upcoming business trip. The bookstore he'd come into had a good supply, and since he was there he might as well have a look around.

He ended up in the fiction section, browsing the titles a bit aimlessly. Sasuke had always been reading these sorts of books, he recalled, pulling one from the shelf. Fake people, fake stories, yes, but he'd liked them.

A few years ago Sasuke had gotten him a book for his birthday - _A Clockwork Orange_ by Anthony Burgess - and urged him to read it, but he had never gotten around doing so. The day after Sasuke died he devoured it in one sitting, and afterward broke down crying. He'd fingered the pages, remembering the laughter in Sasuke's eyes when he'd handed it to him, a look in them that said he had a hilarious joke to share. Orochimaru had been surprised at the gift, but he'd seen the humor Sasuke was trying to communicate. A gag present; that was it. They'd had a good laugh about that, Orochimaru recalled with a wistful smile.

He pulled a book from the shelf, put it back, pulled it out again, and sighed a little. In spite of what he told everyone afterward (_"Yes, I'm alright, thank you,"_ and: _"I'm fine."_), he _missed_ Sasuke. _God,_ he missed him! He remembered the dreams, the feeling of desperate energy that had flooded him as Sasuke's grave, coming out as tears, and couldn't deny it. He didn't want to, either. He wanted to hold fast to Sasuke's memory forever - and not the Sasuke that had been laid to rest in a coffin underground (rosewood and blue velvet), but the Sasuke that had given him the book, the Sasuke that had laughed when Orochimaru tripped over a curb (the only time he could remember he'd been so clumsy), and then followed right after, too distracted to notice it.

Orochimaru purchased the book, and drove to the graveyard with it tucked under the passenger seat. By the time he arrived the sun had sunk a little, the western sky tinged pink (a bleeding), but only slightly. It would take two more hours for it to transform the sky into a brilliant watercolor; three for it to die completely and leave the world in darkness.

He stopped at the foot of Sasuke's grave, looking out over the others before he could bring himself to look down. They all looked the same - gray stone slabs - broken only by the occasional flower or flag, the white and red cloth fluttering. They all looked the same as Sasuke's. Orochimaru let his eyes fall on the cravings in the gravestone, holding the book in both hands now, clasped in front of him as he read:

Sasuke Uchiha

1988 - 2006

And that was it. No message, as so many of these other graves bore; no carved picture of a cross, an angel, or anything else. Any flowers had withered away, and though Orochimaru knew a few people still came to visit (he'd met that girl here, once, a month or so back), the flowers they brought always seemed to die so quickly. As if Sasuke didn't want them.

Orochimaru chuckled a little at the thought, knowing it to be impossible. He was dead, after all, and though Orochimaru didn't know exactly what it was all about, or what happened to the dead (was there something after? He didn't know, but he _hoped_ there was), he knew Sasuke couldn't feel anything anymore.

He glanced down at the book in his hands, suddenly feeling a little foolish. (An odd thing for him to feel, really….) If Sasuke couldn't feel anything, why had he bothered to bring this book? It was something Sasuke never would have read - though it _was_ fiction - and Orochimaru knew it.

Leaning forward, he placed it beside the gravestone just the same. A gag present, wasn't it? He wanted to preserve the thin filament that tied them, run his fingers along it to marvel at its thinness, and at its strength. He knew he was the only one keeping it there; that if he allowed it to break, Sasuke wouldn't take it back up. Wouldn't be able to even attempt it.

When he left it was just past nine and the stars were shining.

_(I can't seem to leave you, my dear... I can't seem to forget.)_

Coming home to an empty house, the windows staring blankly, darkly, into the streets, he forced himself through the motions of preparing for bed. They felt somehow hollow, however. He was going through the motions - nothing more. For some reason (even though, really, it was _only_ getting ready for bed) he didn't like it, at the same time knowing there was nothing he could do to change.

o

That night he dreamt of Sasuke, as he had countless times before. Neatly laid out in his coffin (blue velvet and rosewood), pale as the porcelain dishes Orochimaru kept for special occasions. And as they lowered him into the ground, the coffin lid shut against the earth they would shovel atop it, Orochimaru imagined (again, as he had so many times before) Sasuke inside that little wooden box, hands still (dead), eyes shut (also dead), body stiff (_dead_), terrified.

Five times that night, Orochimaru remembered waking up, each time falling back to sleep as quickly as he had the first. Each time his breathing was a little quicker, and each time he woke with a little gasp, mind forgetting, for the moment, that there was an empty space beside him now.

"Sasuke?"

o

Running a finger over a well-used photo (it was one of Sasuke, taken just a few weeks before he'd died and he was _smiling_ dammit), Orochimaru left for work. Another day. But what was that? He'd lived through more than he cared to count. Sometimes there were surprises, sometimes there weren't, and he lived through them all at exactly the same speed. 24 hours, 1440 minutes. No change. (Even though, in the days after Sasuke's death, time had passed so quickly that he wasn't able to recall anything about them.)

Work was the same as usual. Paperwork, mostly, with a few forms thrown in. Nothing spectacular.

Afterward, he went to a nearby fast-food restaurant, requesting a medium order of french-fries just as he always had. (A year ago Sasuke had come with him, and even when he couldn't he was happy to eat whatever cold french-fries Orochimaru saved. The thought hit him as he walked in, but he swallowed it down, managing a small smile for the cashier. Another young boy, about Sasuke's age - nineteen.)

He seated himself at a small booth near the door, munching french-fries. He didn't know why he'd come here, really, other than to preserve that thin thread. He didn't want to forget, not a single bit of anything at all. He spent hours pouring over photos - old and new - of Sasuke, memorizing every bit of his face, of his body, the different expressions he wore. And he played videos as well.

He knew it was a little pathetic, that if someone were to see him watching old videos with the rapt attention of a four-year old, they would probably laugh. But, really, he didn't care. Because what he wanted more than to remember Sasuke's face, was to remember his voice. And when he lay in bed at night, awaiting the dreams (nightmares), he would close his eyes and play back bits of conversation, grumbles, whispered sentences he barely recalled because they hadn't been caught on tape. He would drench himself in Sasuke's voice, unable to stop (like some drug, he was a Sasuke-addict, ha ha ha), until the dreams took him.

"Mind if I join you?"

His head came up sharply, meeting only the soft green eyes of Tsunade. There was a moment of silence while he took in the drink in her hand (a coffee of some sort, which meant she'd seen him and come in to talk to him, not because she wanted the fries), and then he nodded.

"Certainly; have a seat. I'm surprised you even have to ask," he added with a smile. "We've been friends for how many years now?"

She returned the smile, sipping from her drink. "Too many." Silence ensued, overcome by the buzz of surrounding conversations. "You've changed, though, Orochimaru. Maybe I would have come and sat down without asking a year ago, but now…."

Orochimaru's eyes, a hard, shimmering gold, sought out hers and held them. "But now, what?"

"Oh come _on_." She set her drink aside, leaning forward. Her breasts pressed into the edge of the table, creating a small well of shadow over the gray tabletop. "Don't tell me you haven't noticed it yourself; everyone else has."

There was a nagging feeling that, yes, he knew _exactly_ what she was talking about, but he pushed it aside, feigning innocence. "And what's that?"

She smiled - a sad, disbelieving gesture - and leaned back, taking up her drink again. The table was a little dirty, scuff marks worn into it over years of use and wear-and-tear, but she placed one arm on it just the same, the two rings she wore hitting with a soft _clink_. "You're not stupid, Orochimaru," she said at last, "I know you're not. You know what I'm talking about." When he remained silent she sipped at her drink again. "Sasuke?" she said, prodding, noting the wince.

(It was so much easier to remain ignorant, lost in a world that had died just over a year ago.) Again, feigning innocence, feigning stupidity. "What about him?"

This time Tsunade rolled her eyes. "Ever since he died you've been drifting away from everyone," she said. Orochimaru didn't respond. "I know you loved him, but that doesn't mean you get to die with him. You have a life to live too, remember?"

A pause. "I don't want to forget him."

"I'm not telling you to," Tsunade said. "I'm just telling you that you have a life to live, a right to life, like all those abortion people are yelling, and that you need to go live it. Sasuke's been dead over a year, Orochimaru. Sometimes it's hard to let go, but that doesn't mean you hide in your house and look at pictures until your eyes fall out. You don't do that, I hope?"

Orochimaru shook his head. What a liar, right?

"Good. The next thing you have to do is move on. Get involved; join one of the stupid clubs at work. I hear Akatsuki is looking for a new member, but if you don't jump that idiot Tobi's going to get it."

He felt stupid just then (overwhelmed, because every word she spoke was the truth, and good advice on top of it), unable to help the words that spill from his lips. But his words were the truth too, more so than hers. "I just don't want to lose him. He's still here, and if I don't remember everything, he'll slip away." (lost forever) A pause, then, much more quietly, "I don't think I could stand that."

Tsunade sipped at her drink, and kept silent. She saw the look in his eyes, and knew nothing she said now would help. Some people didn't know how it hurt to lose a friend - not to death, but to obsession - that was all.

Some people never let go.

o

Turning Tsunade's words over in his head (again and again and _again_), Orochimaru allowed himself to sleep. For some reason the coffee actually helped now (perhaps he had grown immune), and he was asleep within minutes.

(Blue velvet. Rosewood. Pale hands terrified.)

When he woke up not five minutes later, his breathing quick and eyes wide in the pressing darkness, he shuddered, then reached across the covers. His mind was still off on its own.

(I'm dying with you, my dear. Do you see it?)

And his hands kept searching, reaching for something he had forgotten he wouldn't find.

finis


End file.
